Chapter 58
“GET UP!”
Josephine heard the voice from far away, but resisted. Even half asleep, she remembered what awaited. No single dose of laudanum could numb that dread.
“Miss Dunham!” The gruff voice grew louder, then a hard shove to her shoulder.
Wincing, she struggled to sit, her back and shoulder muscles screaming. She dragged her gaze to the barred window high on the wall, every movement requiring more calculation, her body slower to obey every command. It was still dark outside.
“Get up. Now. We’re leaving.”
She blinked. “It’s not sunup yet.”
“Don’t matter. Sheriff says we’re leaving now.”
He gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet, and it was all she could do to stifle a cry. The deputy slipped the handcuffs on and cinched them tight until the metal pinched her wrists. He motioned her from the cell.
Outside, the night was still. Nothing moved.
But as she peered up into the sky, the moon, partially hidden behind clouds, tried its best to give light.
A buckboard wagon waited out front, Sheriff Rigby at the reins.
So much for waiting three days for the warrant.
She looked around for Dodge, for Mr. Daniel. Anyone.
“Get in the back.” The deputy gestured, waiting for her to climb up.
She tried, but couldn’t manage it. “I can’t seem to—”
With a heavy sigh, he grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up.
She stumbled and fell forward into the narrow, wooden bed.
Pain exploded across her shoulder and radiated down her back.
She rolled onto her side, choking back a sob that threatened to strangle her.
But she refused to give them the satisfaction.
The deputy climbed into the wagon bed and tied her ankles with a leather strap before threading it through an iron ring on the side. But after he joined the sheriff and they got underway, she let the tears come, drowned out by the creak and groan of the wagon.
An hour passed, maybe two or three, and she wondered if this was what prison would be like. Time temporarily ceasing to exist. She listened for the sound of another wagon or someone on horseback, anything to tell her she wasn’t alone.
The handcuffs chafed her wrists, and she hoped Doc Wyatt’s dressing would hold.
The first light of dawn finally touched the horizon, and she imagined Dodge arriving at the jail only to find her gone.
Despite her telling him that their being together wasn’t a choice anymore, she still believed he would come.
He was a man of his word. True North, as Miss Mary said.
But he, too, would discover it was too late.
Sheriff Rigby and Mayor Darden had seen to that.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Tullahoma, the morning sun blazed hot.
The distant blast of a train whistle told her they were close.
Sheriff Rigby had found every rock and rut in every twist and turn through the hills, and he’d punished every muscle and bone in her body. His intention, no doubt.
The wagon stopped, and the deputy circled to the back, lowered the tailboard, and untied her.
Clenching her jaw, she maneuvered to sit upright—only to find scores of passersby watching her, many pausing to gawk.
Avoiding their gazes, she scooted to the end of the wagon bed, trying unsuccessfully to keep her skirt tugged down, when the deputy grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her out.
Walking between them, she kept her eyes lowered as they entered the train station.
Once inside, the deputy purchased two coach class tickets then took his leave.
She boarded the train with Sheriff Rigby, feeling the weight of every disapproving stare.
If his purpose had been to degrade and humiliate, he’d been successful.
“Sit there.” He pointed.
She complied, and he claimed the aisle seat across from her. She hoped once the train left the station, he might remove the handcuffs. He did not.
As the miles gathered behind them, she stared out the window, part of her heart still tucked away somewhere in those hills and hollers in the distance. But part of her heart was in Atlanta, too, and she wondered if Sarah had received her letter yet.
Parched, her throat caked with dust, she tried to work up enough moisture in her mouth to speak. “May I have a drink of water?” she managed, having seen the water station as they entered the car.
If he heard her request, he’d opted to ignore it.
“Please,” she whispered, hating the desperation in her voice.
He got up and returned a minute later, the cup barely half full. She drained it and a knot formed in her throat, remembering how Dodge—stopping by the stream on the way to Lynchburg that first afternoon—had offered to refill the canteen. That day seemed forever ago.
“Ticket, please,” she heard behind them in the car. “We have Godey’s Lady’s Book for women, and Harper’s Weekly for men.” She turned her head when the porter came to their row. “Tickets, please.”
“I got them both right here. She’s in transport.” Sheriff Rigby produced the tickets, and she heard the metallic click click as the porter made the punches.
“Would you care for a Harper’s Weekly, Sheriff?”
A pause. “Sure.”
“Ma’am, would you care for a Godey’s Lady’s Book?”
“I said she’s in transport. Don’t talk to her, talk to me!”
“Beg your pardon, Sheriff. Would your . . . fellow traveler care for a magazine?”
The sheriff looked over.
Josephine nodded. “But may I have a Harper’s Weekly instead?”
Sheriff Rigby’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll take what you’re offered! Give her the woman’s magazine. Maybe it’ll teach you to start acting like one.”
Josephine’s chest tightened as conversation in the passenger car fell quiet. She took the magazine from the porter, trying to manage it with the handcuffs. But dropped it. She leaned down.
“Oh no, ma’am, you stay right there. Let me come to you.”
She froze, the kindness in the man’s voice, his choice of words . . . She looked to her right. Slim Poyner. Emotion flooded her, but Mr. Poyner gave a tiny shake of his head as he bent to retrieve the periodical.
“Yes, sir, Sheriff, Godey’s is a fine read for a lady.” He picked it up and laid it on the vacant bench seat beside her. “Full of fashion, poems, lessons on sewing and knitting.” His gaze flicked to Josephine, then darted away. “And don’t forget the recipes.”
“Just give it to her and move on.”
“Yes, sir, Sheriff.”
Slim Poyner continued to the next car, never looking back.
Her hands trembling, Josephine shifted on the cushioned bench to awkwardly flip the pages, the handcuffs hindering her movements.
She finally found the cooking section and turned page by page through the recipes, until .
. . Stuck between one of the pages was a slip of paper.
A handwritten recipe for Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7 jerky.